


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

































A PRAIRIE WINTER 



A Prairie Winter 


By an Illinois Girl 

njmjl- yji*v**f* 



New York 

The Outlook Company 
1903 



THE. L.BRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAR 3! 1903 

\ Copyright Entry 

JW.'w-rrs 

S'LASS^ XKc.No. 

g o ! ^ %4- 

COPY B. 


Copyright 1903, by 
The Outlook Company 


All rights reserved 
Published April, 1903 


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JHount ^Irasant Press 

J. Horace McFarland Company 
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania 


To 

Minna Caroline Smith 



SEPTEMBER 




A Prairie Winter 


September fifteenth 

HE long corn rows are 
beginning to rustle and 
stir as if they felt the 
advance of the man in 
the blouse with the swinging knife. 

The night air has a touch of 
frost, and the moon rises with a 
ghostly vapor that converts each 
lonely corn-stalk into a "ha’nt.” 
The girls have gone back and I’m 
a bit lonesome. 

I creep into bed at night now 
with the firm conviction that some- 
thing beside rats and mice bides 
in the darkness of the garret. And 



3 



A PRAIRIE WINTER 


some night, — but it’s easy jesting 
in broad daylight ! 

Let me ask you, did you ever 
waken in the night to the doleful 
call of the night-owl ? Then you 
have experienced a most creepy 
sensation which you are scarcely 
willing to confess to in the glare 
of the morning. 

September sixteenth 

Should you like to know what I 
did the other day? I made two 
glasses of wild-grape jelly, actually ! 
It’s up on the top shelf now await- 
ing some feast-day, and I’m proud! 
That’s not all I did the same day, 
either, else I shouldn’t be so vain. 
It’s just as well the rags - old - iron 
man doesn’t frequent this road, I’m 
thinking; for I’m not devoted to 


4 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the use of my needle, so I have 
occasion to plume myself when I 
have an attack of sewing. I am 
thankful the dress is finished at 
last and hung up in the closet; 
though my case is not much im- 
proved, for I’m in the toils of an 
apron which is beautifully long and 
beautifully ruffled and takes me 
back to my pinafore days. Only, 
then some one else ruffled the 
thing and pricked fingers over the 
buttonholes. 

I’ve taken up my chrysanthe- 
mums, to be brought into the 
house against the first sharp frost. 
They are full of buds and will 
make a lovely show in a few weeks. 
I’ll let you hear of them. They 
are standing in pails, old kegs and 

S 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


boxes at one end of the porch. I 
wonder how it would feel to have 
all the flower-jars one wanted I I 
was busied nearly all the morning 
taking up my winter - blooming 
plants ; there are the geraniums, 
of course, and some carnations, 
double pink and red. An ever- 
blooming tea-rose goes in one 
dish, a vinca in another and an 
amaryllis in a third. I ransack the 
smoke-house and wood -shed for 
suitable dishes, and the garden 
is dug up for the right kind of 
mold. 

This afternoon I took up my 
hyacinth bulbs and put them on 
the wood -shed roof to dry. They 
are to be put in the ground in 
November when I make my new 
6 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


beds on the corner. I love to dig 
and to kick the dry leaves about, 
while I look off occasionally to the 
woods. I can just see the roof of 
our new house through the cherry 
grove, and somehow I am glad it 
is several miles of trees instead of 
several miles of houses that shut 
out the northern horizon. 

The other morning, early, I stood 
in the yard in front of the house 
and looked toward the woods. 
The air was warm and hazy, and 
a long way off, beyond the tree- 
tops, a bell was ringing. Puffs of 
white smoke rose lazily and hung 
over the woods or wreathed off 
into the purple air; the bell had 
a very mellow tone, and I stood 
and listened a few minutes and 


7 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


was glad there were railroads and 
towns — beyond the trees. 

September seventeenth 

Last night was sharp ; still, there 
was no frost, only a heavy dew that 
beaded the grass and oat stubble 
and made the fields across the road 
sparkle silver and rose under the 
early rays of the sun. I took up 
my tulip bulbs this morning, after 
a few preliminaries in the house. 
That apron is not finished ! 

You see I do not read much. I 
am mostly confined to the w Com- 
mentaries of Julius Cassar,” of which 
Jamie and I consume about two 
chapters an evening. It is true I 
finished the w Conquest of Mexico” 
the other day, but I hardly like to 
say how long ago I began. How 
8 


A PRAIRIE JV I NTER 


can I read when there is all out- 
doors to live in ? When my work 
is done or is waiting for me, I run 
to take a peep at my flowers. 
They are a perfect mass of riotous 
confusion, gay with nodding asters, 
white, blue and pink, gaudy with 
dahlias and warm with straggling 
nasturtiums. Here and there the 
scarlet sage burns through the 
foliage ; the poppy bed is alight 
with Californian orange, gold and 
lemon. The fences of sweet peas 
load the air with fragrance and 
fling out their tendrils and exqui- 
site blossoms in all directions. I 
have a good time, and a busy one. 


9 






OCTOBER 


October second 

IS a night to charm 
the hearts of the very 
witches. Damp, just 
enough to make the 
white mist steam from the woods 
and creep over the fields, sinking 
in the low places and drawing 
a luminous veil over that " orbed 
maiden with white fire laden, 
whom mortals call the moon.” 
Chill, just enough to give an ex- 
cuse to shiver, if the wandering 
mists take uncertain, half-animate 
form. A little fire is welcome 
though the day has been warm, 



i3 



A PRAIRIE WINTER 


with an Indian summer haze 
hanging about the horizon, mel- 
lowing distances and turning the 
noon sunshine into a faint yellow 
light that warms and cheers and 
is not insistent. 

Some one says, "Oh, no, it won’t 
freeze to-night; it’s almost grass- 
growing weather!” Much they 
know! What was it happened to 
the blood in my veins when I stood 
a minute on the well platform and 
a shadow by the yard-fence men- 
aced me indistinctly? A horse 
stirred in the stall and the shadow 
became two tubs, — menacing Mon- 
day ! But I wish you could have 
seen the "Widow Moon” as I saw 
her, with her flimsy veil of crape 
and her one star attendant. 

H 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


October third 

Monday, and wash-day ! But it 
is late evening now, past nine I 
should judge by the signs, and, 
though I am casting a longing eye 
at the fresh pillow-slip, I mean to 
write a few words, just to take my 
temperature of a Monday evening. 
Mondays are not play-days, but 
they have their compensations ; and 
soap-suds, if looked at in the right 
light, flash the rainbow. I love 
soap-suds, not only when they fall 
in graceful festoons from the clay 
pipe, but when they foam up about 
the tub’s edge and make a pair 
of jewelled bracelets for the arms. 
Some people accuse me of using 
too much soap ! Then it is such a 
comfort to help in purifying. You 
15 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


almost feel as if there were a virtue 
in it, and I like the dazzle of white 
pieces from the grass. Lastly, if 
one has really gone below the froth 
of the soap-suds, there is a health- 
ful weariness when night comes 
that makes the dainty freshness of 
the bed unspeakably welcome. For, 
though Nausikaa and her maidens 
may have played ball to refresh 
themselves after their long -post- 
poned wash, I confess to being 
equal to nothing but a short stroll 
to the farthest corner of the yard, 
under the ash tree. I was enticed 
into this walk by the beauty of the 
evening sky. While we sat at 
supper, as I drank my tea and ate 
my sliced tomatoes, I watched the 
colors soften in the west and take 
16 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


on a twilight loveliness, while the 
topmost branches of the almost 
leafless poplars stood out like deli- 
cate lace -work against the opal 
light. 

I like that sweep across the 
Lombardy poplar tops, — a contin- 
uous bend along the whole row of 
the wind-break, hinting the pre- 
vailing winds. Here, there, and 
yet again, a ragged bird’s nest 
hangs in the crotch of a branch. 

Having finished my tea, I put 
something around me and went 
out. The west was still throbbing 
with light, and in the east the 
moon rode high "on a bed of daf- 
fodil sky.” That is how I came 
to wander around the house, past 
the sleeping flowers and into the 
i7 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


southeast corner of the yard, scat- 
tering the dead leaves hovered 
there and drinking in beauty of 
sight and sound. 

October fourth 

A long, busy afternoon to my- 
self, for they all went away, leaving 
me to the care of one of my cav- 
aliers, aged fourteen. I scarcely 
had picked up the dishes when 
the boy came tramping in with 
his arms and pockets full of musk- 
melons about the size of lem- 
ons and known as pomegranates. 
Whereupon we had a small feast, 
and afterwards the boy wiped the 
dishes for me and informed me 
that he knew to a certainty how 
to tell when a watermelon is ripe, 
and there are three likely ones 
18 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


on the vines and also several big 
pumpkins ready to be brought 
down to the house ; and won’t I 
take a walk with him down to the 
patch to bring home the biggest 
for a pie ? But I am too busy, and 
the house must not be left alone. 
I must give this afternoon to a 
neglected task. With little paper 
bags, old envelopes and a pencil, 
I carefully gather, sort and label 
all the seeds that are ripe, and stow 
them away in a box for the winter. 

There are the rattling pods of 
sweet peas, the ridgy nasturtium 
seeds and the queer little pestles 
of the "Mourning Bride.” This 
packet is marked "Corn-flower,” 
that "Phlox,” and another "Poppy,” 
while into this corner I tuck a 


*9 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


packet marked " Hollyhock, ” a 
choice double variety, the gift of 
a friend. When all is done I put 
the box away on a top shelf with 
the basket of gladioli bulbs, to 
await the spring. 

All this time I am silently 
amused to see how the boy de- 
votes this rare half - holiday to 
his favorite pastimes, as I to mine. 
After trudging down with a big 
yellow pumpkin, which he is zeal- 
ous to see at once started pie- 
ward, he gets his shot-gun and 
shoots at a mark, and at the nu- 
merous sparrows whose days are 
over when he becomes an expert. 
Tiring of this sport, he hauls over 
the bookcase drawers to find pieces 
of sheet- music and an old song- 


20 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


book or two, and then falls to 
practicing on the organ in a man- 
ner he would hardly dare to in- 
dulge in were his audience one 
whit larger; for, let me tell you, 
he is self-taught. The boy is go- 
ing to be a great musical genius — 
by his hair ! 

I am none too soon with my 
seeds, for they say there will be 
frost to - night if the wind goes 
down. I have covered most of 
the outdoor plants with old sheets. 
It is as light as noonday outside, 
and every shadow is distinct. The 
grape-vine over the trellis shows 
each leaf clear and sharp on the 
white moonlight of the walk. It 
is after nine. I should feel guilty, 
sitting up after ten I 


21 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


October fifth 

Even a pie is better in anticipa- 
tion, if you may sit on a bench in 
the sunshine and cut glistening 
rings from the goodly pumpkins ; 
seeing with the eye of prophecy, 
the while you chip away the hard 
rind and slice the inner circle into 
a granite kettle. Or, if you pre- 
fer prolonged expectation, looking 
forward to Thanksgiving, put on 
your bonnet and come through 
the gap to the corn-field back of 
the grove. The corn is cut and 
shocked, and dry fodder litters the 
field. Occasionally a pumpkin is 
ripe enough to gleam from the 
straggling vines, but if you are 
wise you will not leave the wagon- 
road or you may come to grief ; 


22 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

for the inevitable "pitchfork burrs” 
line the sides, and, even as you 
walk, take unceremonious hold on 
your switching skirts, thence to 
transfer themselves insidiously to 
your stockings and to prod you 
even after you are sure you have 
removed the last one and cast it 
where the pitchfork of the evil 
one should be — into the flames. 

October seventh 

I sat on the horse-block last 
evening, waiting for some of the 
household. The weather has mod- 
erated again, and the air was heavy 
with moisture, while a steady south 
wind seemed to hunt the clouds. 
The newly risen moon, large and 
red, looked down on the pasture, 
and in her wake hung a filmy star, 


23 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


like a censer lamp. I listened; 
the wind was playing an eerie harp 
— rattling the branches above me, 
gently swishing the brittle weeds at 
the roadside and soughing in the 
meadow grass. I listened. The 
pathway of light in the meadow 
broadened, detached clouds barred 
the face of the moon. I listened, 
and surely that was Pan "playing 
on pipes of corn.” 

October eighth 

If you have, say, a dozen firm, 
not overripe tomatoes, dip them in 
cold water, peel very thinly and 
cut a small disc from the top of 
each. Remove their seeds and in 
their stead put two teaspoonfuls 
of salad dressing, two of chopped 
onion and parsley, and two of 


24 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


finely minced meat. Replace the 
caps, and serve cold with a little 
extra dressing and a good appetite. 

I have been making wild crab- 
apple jelly, sampling chili -sauce 
and gathering seeds that ripened 
late. I am glad our kitchen faces 
west. One should not miss the 
sunsets, nor the golden shimmer 
along the dusty corn - rows when 
the sun is low. The other day I 
walked down to the main road. 
The goldenrod was gone and the 
wild field -asters lined the way, 
bending to the dusty road or 
crowding the fences, lifting their 
royal purple above the ragged 
weeds and sunburned grasses. At 
either hand plumes and sprays 
of white nodded and a stray 


25 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

yellow flower peeped from the 
osage hedge. By turning into the 
meadow gap and skirting the grove 
I came to the old house where the 
boys were at work. I was greeted 
with shouts, promptly introduced 
to all of the improvements, and 
finally invited to remain and ride 
home with them when they drove 
up the cows. A strong wind had 
risen, and when we drove away 
from the almost dismantled house 
a loosened door on the south side 
swung dismally to and fro, putting 
the finishing touch of dreariness 
to the old untenanted dwelling. 

October thirteenth 

Such a morning ! Rousing 
dreamily to wonder if it is six 
o’clock and sun-up, I push aside 
26 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


my curtains, and lo ! all the sky 
has said it — has painted it in 
primrose flushings and violet edg- 
ings from end to end of the visi- 
ble horizon, has burned it with 
bars of red and blazoned it in 
crimson and gold. Into this lake 
of color slowly rises the w orb of 
day,” causing an overflow in rip- 
ples of rosy light on my chamber 
wall. 

All morning long, large, white- 
capped clouds rolled up and 
were tossed and tumbled into 
fleece in the upper air. Irregular 
patches of shadow traveled widely 
over the meadows, while fringes 
of light followed the woodlands, 
accenting the autumn colors. 


27 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


October fourteenth 

Rain is coming ! Hear it in the 
song of the wind playing through 
wire window- screens, while the 
lamp flares and the curtains are 
carried their lengths into the room. 
Outside is the low-lying blackness 
of the garden. A few pickets of 
the fence, a flower-bed and a shrub 
or two stand out strangely in the 
light from the window. All else is 
swallowed up in the darkness of a 
heavily clouded night. I hear the 
light rain of leaves on the roof as 
each fresh gust passes over, dying 
away with a whistle at the eaves. 

Off to the northeast a fitful glow 
relieves the heaviness of night, 
even revealing the presence and 
outlines of jagged cloud- masses. 

28 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


It is the beacon of civilization. 
That way lies Chicago ! 

With a sudden swirling of leaves 
and a fresher draught from the 
windows the first heavy drops came, 
and when I blew out my light — a 
thing you may not do in the city — 
they were pattering on the shingles 
of the garret. 

October eighteenth 

I have a dear little jug, a yellow 
one ! — with tiny daisies embossed 
on either side. Through its dainty 
handle you could not slip even 
your smallest finger, and its capac- 
ity must be about a dozen small 
thimblefuls. It stands at my elbow 
on the dark green felt of the table- 
spread, and holds just five of my 
richest late pansies. On the other 
29 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


side of the table stands a clear glass 
bowl full of nasturtiums, — the last 
I shall gather this fall, I’m afraid. 

October twentieth 

I drove to Mokena last evening 
to meet the late train. It is quite 
an honor to be trusted with the 
team, and the ride is very pleasant 
through the full, soft twilight, with 
the autumn coloring of the woods 
on either hand. Beyond the 
bridge, through the almost leaf- 
less aisles of the woods, an occa- 
sional gleam of water meets the 
eye. It is old Hickory, placidly 
winding its way through an en- 
chanted wood. Now it follows 
the wood a short distance, lying 
in shallows between water -worn 
stones; nowit disappears between 
30 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


leaf -carpeted banks, now gleams 
again where a small ravine cuts a 
notch. This glen, on the left, full 
of billowing leaves from the over- 
hanging trees — as you look the 
fading light has transformed it into 
a stream of Pactolus. 

But the light is rapidly leaving 
the landscape, the trees are only 
dark clumps, and darker shadows 
emphasize the hollows. The lamps 
of the village twinkle ahead, a 
switch-signal flashes its clear light, 
and one high window in the grain 
elevator reflects the lingering glow 
in the west. 

I spent the afternoon on the big 
mow of the new barn, oiling hard 
maple flooring for the new house. 
There is something delightful in 
3i 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the touch and smell of new lumber, 
and what a comfort my all-over, 
long-sleeved apron is now! The 
October sunshine, warm and bright, 
streams in at the wide-open doors 
and filters through chinks and 
cracks. On the floor below lies a 
heap of curly shavings and golden 
sawdust in a panel of light from 
the window. I can see from where 
I work just one corner of a field, 
the wire fence following the road, 
a clump of dull red weeds, and 
the slanting rows of corn- shocks. 

October twenty-second 

We went out on the road to see 
if we could see the coat of paint 
going on the new barn ; but it was 
early morning and the sunshine 
was so blurred that we could only 
32 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


make outlines of the building on 
the corner. It was a morning 
when sound travels a long distance, 
and the carpenters were already at 
work ; we could easily hear the 
rhythmical blows of their hammers, 
sending the nails into the siding of 
the house. Crows cawed inces- 
santly from the neighboring fields, 
cocks crowed from far off on the 
prairie, and a train on the Rock 
Island road puffed heavily along, 
across the opening in the woods. 
Cattle were cropping the short 
grass on the brow of a hill in the 
lower meadow, and in the field 
across the road a bronze hen- 
turkey and her late brood were 
ranging. The dew-wet grass must 
be uncomfortable s-talking for the 


33 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


small fowls, so, with a piece of 
bread, I followed the osage hedge, 
hoping to furnish a breakfast for 
the flock. 

The hedges are a study in color- 
mixing, from the emerald green of 
the branches untouched by frost, 
through all the shades of lighter 
green and gamboge to the pale 
chrome of the fallen leaves. The 
turkeys proved very wild, declining 
all my overtures, and most of the 
crumbs were left for the twittering 
sparrows, flitting in and out through 
the hedge. I turned to go home. 
Overhead sailed a flock of wild 
geese, going south. Crossing the 
road later to get some bright leaves, 
I startled a rabbit from its brush- 
heap. I caught just a glimpse of 
34 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

its cottony tail, and though I tried 
"ever so” to keep it in sight, it 
eluded me and either retired to its 
burrow or sat eyeing me from the 
hedge-thicket. I returned to the 
house, my skirts gracefully looped 
with cockle-burr rosettes. 

October twenty-fourth 

Geese are not flying south for 
nothing! It has been growing 
steadily colder for the last thirty- 
six hours, and last night — well, I 
know it was cold last night, for I 
woke and caught it at it ! The 
stars blinked at me through the 
window; they looked chilly. I 
wondered if I had better put 
the window down, gave a passing 
thought to my flowers on the porch 
below and drew the covers closer, 


35 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


sleepily resolving that a certain 
pair of white blankets should be 
on the bed before another night. 
It clouded over before morning, 
and has been a chilly, gray- toned 
day, though it was six o’clock be- 
fore I made its acquaintance, and 
then there was a narrow rim of 
light along the eastern horizon 
like a golden border to the gray 
curtain of the overcast sky. 

After the sun peeped up, for as 
long as one might brush one’s 
hair, his rays stained the wood- 
work crimson, then a fog of whirl- 
ing, circling snowflakes dimmed 
the air. Ah! Mother Earth is be- 
fore me with her white blankets ! 

That was not much of a snow- 
storm, after all. It will dampen 
36 


A PRA I RI E WINTER 


the fodder so the husking can go 
on easier, for dry fodder chaps 
the hands so; but it did not spoil 
a wash-day. 

The woods are gradually being 
stripped of their glory. At a dis- 
tance they look as if they had 
been treated to a wash of burnt 
sienna, but here’s a careless daub 
of madder and there’s a splash of 
crimson lake ! Just at its setting 
the sun broke through the clouds, 
and the haystacks west of the grove 
seemed to blaze up in a bonfire. 

October twenty- fifth 

It was too cold last night to 
leave the cows in their improvised 
barn along the north pasture fence, 
so, after milking, they were turned 
loose in the barnyard, where they 
37 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

might have the protection of the 
groves and orchard. I went with 
the boys to help pick up the un- 
shucked walnuts spread out on 
the ground in the barnyard. Our 
cows eat walnuts ! We had a lan- 
tern and a bushel basket, and as 
fast as the basket was filled it was 
emptied over the fence into the 
house yard. The cows, unused to 
their new quarters, were wandering 
uneasily about. We could hear 
them clattering on the stones of 
the old barn foundation or crack- 
ing some loose boards ; but we 
could not see them, unless some 
more curious ones advanced into 
the feeble circle of light thrown by 
the lantern, with a startling effect 
of horns in unexpected places. 

38 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


After the nuts were gathered the 
lantern was taken down to the ice- 
house, throwing grotesque shadows 
on the maple grove, lighting up a 
fence -corner and what had been 
a pen or shed before our old barn 
burned, and bringing into relief 
a long ladder resting against the 
walls of the ice-house. Then I 
went around to see that the yard 
gates were properly secured, for 
I was afraid my flower mounds 
might be trampled. 

October twenty-sixth 

I saw such a glorious sight at 
the sun’s rising as I never expect 
to see again. It was a panorama 
for the prairie. 

A blue - black snow-cloud had 
risen and curtained the eastern sky 
39 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


from horizon to zenith. Slowly 
it lifted and moved back before 
the sun’s advance, its broken and 
ragged borders looking as if they 
had been dipped in his fires. Be- 
low the sun countless lines of gold 
were delicately penciled. Fringed 
with dazzling light, the smoky 
cloud sank majestically in the 
southwest and the sun rode high 
in the unflecked blue. 

October twenty-seventh 

Picking up corn is fun, till it 
comes to the nubbins, — and, dear 
me ! how I hate to stop for them. 
There are so many, and the basket 
fills so slowly. These long ears of 
smooth white corn, and these again 
with coral -pink kernels, — anyone 
might like to handle these, but as 


40 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


to the nubbins I beg to be ex- 
cused. Then look at these husks 
and silks: here’s shiftless husking! 
— regular "nubbin” work. An 
ear half stripped is a nuisance. 
The boy is a cheerful comrade, 
discoursing of things weighty and 
things trivial in a most entertain- 
ing manner, while his nimble fin- 
gers lay hold on the ears and send 
them flying into the basket. Then 
he jumps up, seizes the basket and 
swings it to his shoulder, and the 
corn rattles into the big double 
box in a shower of white and pink. 
Opposite the turnip patch he is 
missing for a few, only a few, sec- 
onds, and turns up on the other 
side of the wagon with a smile of 
satisfaction. " That was a good 


4i 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

turnip,” he remarks tentatively. 
Sign of turnip there is none about 
him, and he adds, for my enlight- 
enment, "Ate it, skin and all.” 
He even acknowledges a few tops ! 
He calls my attention to the off- 
horse of our team, "Got the pret- 
tiest face you about ever saw, so 
sort of kind, but my! she’s such an 
awful fool,” with a chuckle. The 
boy’s judgment may be warped, for 
once when he started to lead the 
team to the next shock I saw the 
horse called "fool” take a gener- 
ous scraping from his knuckles, 
under the impression that he had, 
or ought to have a nubbin to offer 
her. 

We do not loiter, for the sky 
is heavy and picking up corn in 


42 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the snow and mud is aching work 
for the hands. When the box is 
filled so full that it cannot be shaken 
together one whit more, what more 
pleasant than to ride home on the 
top of the jolting load in company 
with the baskets and a pumpkin 
and the boy, to look off over the 
fields dotted with pumpkins and 
heaps of corn, glad you do not 
have to brave the pitchfork burrs 
along the ditch? 

October twenty-eighth 

The vine of German ivy over 
the east window has grown with 
such a pretty trick. Climbing up 
the screen by means of light cords, 
it has spread over the window in 
a complete network of leaves, and 
during these short mornings lac- 
43 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


quers my work-table in a shifting 
pattern of gold and green. One 
long runner, spying an opening 
near the top of the window where 
the frame had shrunk, thrust in a 
delicate shoot to reconnoiter, and 
so by degrees grew down inside 
the screen and now runs along the 
window ledge, next the glass, with 
a friendly look at the closely piled 
school books, as who should say, 
"If you really want to get on the 
inside of things, there’s always an 
opening, my dear.” 

It was evening. The chickens 
were going to roost, making sleepy, 
comfortable noises as they stopped 
to peck at stray kernels or crusts. 
The turkeys had already perched 
on the fence, balancing nicely or 


44 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


peering from side to side, pre- 
paratory to settling finally; the 
fall chickens, cuddled together in 
their coops, were cheeping shrilly. 
Through the trees the sunset 
burned in somber color, a sort of 
sulphureted red, while above the 
sunset small fleecy clouds looked 
like pieces of gold -leaf, torn and 
scattered broadcast. The wind 
went through the apple boughs, 
loosening a leaf or two and stir- 
ring the small, gnarly apples left 
clinging there. 

October twenty-ninth 

I have just put my chrysanthe- 
mums out for a sun-bath. They 
are looking so healthy and are 
already quite full of bloom. One 
glorious golden yellow one is slowly 
45 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


unfolding its long, flat petals to 
the gaze. It will be a wonderful 
ball. 

I delight to surprise myself with 
the effects of separate colors in my 
vases. One tall, slender vase, — I 
have seen the same shade of dusky 
pink in a string of Roman pearl 
beads, — stands on the organ, with 
dull red for background, and holds 
some half-dozen nodding chrysan- 
themums of a little deeper color 
than the vase. In another vase two 
rich lemon chrysanthemums droop 
their heads against the greenish 
yellow of the sides, and one can 
scarcely tell that there is glass 
between the drooping flowers and 
the stiff green stems in the water 
below. 


46 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


October thirty-first 

Sunday morning was such a 
white, crusty morning. Hoar-frost 
lay thick on the walks, platforms 
and shed -roofs; it powdered the 
meadows, crisped the weeds at the 
roadside and gave an edge to the 
fence -rails. The sun rose, and 
lances of light quivered along the 
roofs ; boards and rails caught the 
spirit and sparkled with points and 
darts. Higher the sun rose; the 
shadows of the hedges traveled 
across the road, and out in the 
meadow, over the way, a solitary 
haystack threw its lengthened cone 
of shadow on the stiff, rimy grass. 


47 





NOVEMBER 




November second 

| HEN the twilight comes 
on and all work must 
be put aside till lamp- 
lighting, it is pleasant 
to slip out and take a 
bracing walk. Turn in at the 
garden gate swinging open against 
the fence, its very picket and hinge 
seeming to assert that days of 
guardianship are over and whoso- 
ever or whatsoever will may have 
admission here. Nevertheless we 
will fasten it after us, from force of 
a summer’s habit not to be lightly 
parted with. Dame Nature se-ems 
5 1 



A PRAIRIE WINTER 


to be about done with her color- 
box — ah, no! see the blackberry 
row, leaving its trail of red down 
the center of the garden. About 
the most desolate -looking objects 
in the garden are the bean-pole 
wigwams, swaying to and fro in the 
wind. You find the corn-rows the 
best walking. This garden corn 
was left standing, and on either 
side the dried and tattered fodder 
brushes against you, rustles, and 
along the row a whisper passes of 
the vast army of stalks cut down on 
the field, while the home-guard still 
stands. There is something about 
the color and aroma of dried corn- 
fodder that is not to be said or 
sung. 

I climb this old rail-fence and 
52 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


cross the field, led by a phantom 
moon shining palely through the 
clouds. What did I say of the 
color-box? What of these patches 
and lines of weeds, done in reds 
and browns, and what of the brittle, 
silvered grasses that crunch beneath 
the feet? To the left is a large 
patch of light — the long, tangled 
swamp -grass, bleached and dried 
to the color of fresh oat -straw. 
By the roadside milkweed pods are 
bursting and scattering their silken- 
winged seeds before the wind. 

November third 

The rains have set in, — the slow, 
exasperating drizzles, typical of 
November. Yesterday I decided 
the ground had softened enough to 
be worked with a potato -fork, so, 
S3 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


with my tools and paper bags of 
bulbs, I rode down to the corner 
with the boys, directly after dinner. 
It was not raining when we started 
out, but was warm and " muggy,” 
and umbrellas and rain - coats 
formed part of our load. Of 
course, bulbs ought to have been 
in the ground these three weeks; 
but what is a body to do when there 
is so much debris about, to say 
nothing of having the beds in 
danger of being trampled by heed- 
less workmen? I found the soil 
really delightful: it crumbles with 
little working and is a comfort after 
the clay. The boy did the digging 
for me. When the sand and com- 
post were well stirred in I drew 
trenches the exact depth I wanted 

54 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


to place the bulbs, and, having set 
them the right distances apart, I 
sifted the dirt into them, leveled it 
over and pressed it down. 

I think I planted two hundred 
tulip bulbs, though, of course, they 
were not all the good size you buy 
at the florist’s. Beside these there 
were some scores of daffodils. The 
lilies and hyacinths I left to another 
day. Almost at the start the rain 
began again, but by keeping well 
wrapped up and staying as much as 
possible under the trees, which 
shook down a miniature shower 
every time I jogged them, I man- 
aged to keep at it, with only one 
intermission, until milking- time. 
Now I had meant to walk home, 
but by that time the rain was pretty 
55 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


heavy, so the boys persuaded me to 
come over into the barn and wait 
while they milked; for, of course, 
all the stock is kept in the barn 
now. I went over and, with only 
one ray of light from the lantern, 
I waited on the barn floor, watch- 
ing the rain and listening to the 
horses champing their hay and 
grain in comfort. 

Then came the ride home. It 
was very dark. The rain had 
slackened to a mizzle and the 
horses splashed steadily along. Our 
lantern threw strange shadows on 
the fog that closed us in so we 
could not see the hedges. The 
switch-light up on the grade danced 
like a will-o’-the-wisp. Then some- 
one in front cried, "There’s the 
56 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


light in the window!” and we were 
at home. 

November fourth 

I stepped into the dark pantry 
to put away the dishes. The rain 
clings to the window, and the eye 
cannot penetrate through the fine 
drizzle even to the little gate. I 
could hear a faint drip, drip, drip, 
the monotonous wailing of the wind 
and, above all, the broken puffing 
of a train toiling up the grade. 
A gleam of light through the 
dark, a shower of sparks and a 
fierce, short glare, then a red 
light twinkling, — and the train 
has passed the crossing. 

November fifth 

We had not seen the sun nor 
any sign of him for four days, but 

57 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


we decided that the washing must 
be done whether the sun sulked 
or not. I had my suspicions that 
we had chosen the worst day of 
the week, when a half-hearted 
rain began to rinse the line full 
of clothes. About noon, however, 
there was a rift in the gray, and 
the blue looked down. We were 
still in the shadow, but I could 
see the sunshine traveling toward 
us. I watched its slow approach 
in one long, almost unbroken line. 
It touched the woods, and the 
dripping trees flashed back rus- 
set and cherry and amber. It 
traveled, over the fields and the 
oat - stubble, wet and steaming, 
trembled with yellow light, — a field 
of cloth of gold. Another mo- 

58 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


ment, and the shadow was moving 
rapidly beyond us. Crows cawed 
from field to field, or skimmed 
along close to the ground ; the 
smoke from a railroad fire curled 
up on the still air, and I could 
see the hand -car men at their 
work near the crossing. Thinking 
of that line of clothes, I smiled 
upon myself complacently as a 
reliable weather prophet. 

November seventh 

Tea is ready and the table spread. 
The lighted lamp is placed in the 
center of the table and my rocker 
drawn up before the fire. I am 
waiting for the boys to come home 
with the milk. The wind sings in 
the stovepipe, and the clock ticks 
against the wall, while I read. I 
59 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

turn the leaves silently, glancing 
from time to time at the clock. 
Perhaps I step out to lay a stick 
under the teakettle, or to the 
door to listen for wheels. The 
moon, but newly risen, is riding 
in the cleft of a dark cloud, — crags 
of light below her, rosy peaks 
above. Still tea waits, and still I 
read. A sleepy fly may buzz on 
the ceiling, or a mouse scramble 
in the walls. The moon comes 
clear and peeps at me over the 
clothes -bars. I am in a world of 
beauty, of pathos and delight, for 
the book in my hand is "A 
Window in Thrums.” 

November ninth 

I stood this morning working at 
my pantry window. Often I wonder 
60 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


what women do whose kitchen 
windows overlook alleys or paved 
courts. My pantry window, where 
I spend some time each day, looks 
out on the orchard. If I lift my 
eyes I can see the slope beyond 
and the gentle rise, skirted by the 
duncolored sweep of trees. Fortu- 
nately, there are many kinds of 
house-work that leave the eyes free 
to wander at will. When the air 
is clear and dry, as it was this 
morning, large volumes of smoke 
from the Rock Island trains rise 
straight above the trees and hang 
for minutes, to gather in fantastic 
shapes of columns, pillars or in- 
verted cones. Through gaps in the 
woods I catch glimpses of bare, 
brown pastures or strips of clear- 
61 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


ing, and on the uplands, beyond, 
gleam a white house and the sails 
of a distant windmill. The sun- 
light loves to loiter here, bringing 
out the mellow tones of browns 
and yellows and dull reds. Far 
beyond, in the dim blue distance, 
rises a long ridge, only on very 
clear days to be distinguished from 
the horizon line. 

November eleventh 

When the wind sets in the west 
there is a roaring through the tree- 
tops, and the clouds scud across 
the face of the moon. You lie in 
bed and feel the building shake, 
while the mighty diapason of the 
grove sounds like the boom of the 
lake. It will make thick ice to- 
night, I think, as I fall asleep. 

62 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


The morning breaks cold and 
still. The early sunbeams play 
across the white, shimmery mead- 
ows, and glance along the steel 
rails of the track. A hand -car 
clicks past. The eastern sky is in- 
laid with delicate mother-of-pearl. 
Small, frothy clouds above twist 
and curl into curious shells, rosy 
with the morning. 

November fifteenth 

I have been carrying the pieces 
of rotten rails and dead apple 
boughs for the little wood -stove 
from the rail -pile back of the 
grove. There is a well-worn path 
through the grove to the rail-pile. 
Tall grayish weeds brush against 
my dress as I walk, and the dried 
twigs crackle under my feet. Little 
63 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


birds hop along the path or dis- 
appear into the rail-pile. They are 
very plump and trim, and almost 
the color of the grayish white 
poplar leaves, scurrying here and 
there. The boys, who know every- 
thing, say they are snowbirds. 

November eighteenth 

I like these late November days 
— when the mellow sunshine of 
the short afternoons fades into the 
dusk of the early twilights. 

They left me alone with the 
house for an afternoon. I roamed 
about the barnyard, feeding the 
turkeys, or wandered up and down 
the hard, smooth-worn road, look- 
ing far, far away. It is wonderful 
how far we can see, now that the 
leaves are gone. A certain hollow 
64 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


in the woods, hidden all summer 
by the dense foliage, now shows 
quite plainly, with touches of 
brownish yellow. I had just dis- 
covered it, and was rejoicing in 
my new outlook, when a long 
passenger train wound gracefully 
through the trees and sped along 
in the hollow, filling it with wreaths 
of white smoke. So, that is where 
the Rock Island track crawls along, 
the traces of whose trains I see in 
flimsy smoke from my window. I 
have never seen a train on that 
track from the house before. I 
shelled the last kernel from my 
cob, and returned to see how the 
bread was baking and if it was 
time to put on the teakettle for 
supper. 


65 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


November nineteenth 

My night picture ! I can see it 
almost any evening, if I step to 
the door for a stick of wood or 
a dipper of water. The leafless 
stems of the Lombardy poplars, 
limned against a gray sky, streaked 
with saffron. Above the pasture- 
gap shines a dim star. From the 
sleeping garden rises the night 
wind, that gently creeps through 
the poplar -row and dies away in 
the lonely corn-field. 

November twenty-first 

I sit in my rocker, with idle 
hands. A faint light struggles in 
at the eastern windows, but I do 
not care for a lamp yet. I care 
only to sit idly watching the shad- 
ows and firelight at play on the 
66 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


kitchen wall. The mush kettle is 
on the stove -lid, and the mush 
puffing slowly to the droning hum 
of the teakettle. Up and down 
the cupboard walls plays the fire- 
light, chasing the shadows in the 
corners and dancing on the ceiling 
in flickering patterns. 

November twenty-sixth 

After a storm of sleet, the sun 
rose gloriously. The osage hedges, 
cased to the sharpest points in icy 
mail, split the intruding sunbeams 
into myriad rainbow tints. The 
swaying tree -tops, weighted with 
glittering pendants, were resplen- 
dent with broken lights. The 
garden was a fairyland of pris- 
matic colors. Slender weeds and 
branches of low bushes, like jew- 
67 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


eled sprays, bent to the earth. 
From all around arose a soft click- 
ing, a musical tinkling of elfin 
chimes, at every passing breath. 


68 


DECEMBER 



December first 


KNEW there was a 
moon, and, having been 
closely confined to the 
house all day, I deter- 
a walk. Supper being 
ready, I dressed and went down 
to the big gate to watch for the 
boys. A dense mist rising from 
the fields was congealed by the 
moon’s breath into white hoar- 
frost, through which the cold moon- 
shine glimmered. The maple-row 
is a blurred, dark line on my 
left. A dog howled at intervals 
from a distant farm. Sounds of life 



mined on 


7i 



A PRAIRIE tTINTER 


reached me, but I was alone, shut 
in by the billowing mist. 

December second 

It rained and rained, stopped, 
and began again with monotonous 
persistency; and when I crept out 
of bed, at half -past five, rain still 
beat distinctly against the windows. 
There has been thunder and light- 
ning, — sure sign of a cold snap, 
say the prophets ! But it is not 
cold now. The rain is gone by 
daylight. A south wind blows and 
the smoky gray clouds are hurry- 
ing, hurrying. It makes one dizzy 
to watch them. Occasionally a 
greenish yellow streak marks the 
struggles of the sunlight to pierce 
the gray. High above the chim- 
neys the clouds have parted for a 
72 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


long patch of milky blue. Such 
bewildering weather ! We will put 
the plants out on the porch for a 
thorough bath. 

December eighth 

The snow that came with the 
wind last night lies crisp and 
crinkly under the cold twilight. 
The man drives his team home 
from the field, and while they 
are drinking at the well tells me 
that some little chicks have gone 
to roost in the pig-pen, out in 
the pasture. The "smale foules” 
will have frozen feet if they stay 
out to-night, so, accompanied by 
the youngest boy, I go in quest of 
them. Out in the lane the unsul- 
lied drifts make quite a show. We 
wedge in at the pasture gate, and, 
73 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


crawling in on the straw of the pen, 
find the chickens nestling under 
their mother. They are easily 
caught, being stupid from sleep, 
and the youngest carries the old 
hen, while I have the chicks for 
my share. 

The afterglow is flushing the 
twilight sky an ineffable pink, while 
high in the steely blue the evening 
has set her one jewel, a star that 
"dartles the red and the blue.” 

December ninth 

Day is breaking, but it still lacks 
fifteen minutes of sunrise. Faint 
crocus and pink, the dawn steals 
up the sky. Frozen vapors along 
the horizon’s edge take indistinct 
violet and sapphire hues. Pale 
lights seem to move over the glis- 
74 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


tening fields of snow, and the day 
breaks. 

December tenth 

While we were on the edge of 
the field, the youngest and I, he 
showed me with great pride their 
rabbit-trap. It is baited with cab- 
bage and set in a brush-heap, a 
favorite haunt of the bunnies, as 
may be told by the tracks in the 
snow hereabouts. No rabbit of 
any size or stamina whatever is 
going to wedge himself into that 
hole, even for the pleasure of nib- 
bling cabbage -leaf. Still, the boy 
mind is very acute, and I may have 
to alter my opinion of rabbits. 

December eleventh 

To waken in the night to dim 
starlight and an aching silence. It 
75 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


is too cold even for a mouse to 
gnaw, yet what was it that roused 
me? There it comes again! a 
long, shrill whistle, echoing from 
the woods. Ah, that must be the 
Eleven-ten coming in from the far 
west. The whistle sounds farther 
and farther away. Silence reigns. 
Sleep comes, and the glittering stars 
keep their cold vigil. 

December fifteenth 

We are having a well drilled a 
few feet from the old barn, and I 
am taking a course of higher me- 
chanics under the tuition of the 
youngest. He was much exercised 
on discovering what a nimbus 
shrouded all my ideas on the pro- 
cess of drilling. The suggestion 
that a drill must work very like a 
76 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


corkscrew in a stubborn cork was 
scoffed at, yet not too severely, and 
with the air of one really anxious 
to instruct. Finding that the ver- 
bal method served only to entangle 
us both more and more in the 
tackle of the machinery, he became 
suddenly silent, resorting to his 
pencil ; and presently he placed 
before me, with a most triumphant 
air, a perfect picture of the way 
wells are drilled, drawn on a scrap 
of paper. 

It was only last evening that he 
came into the parlor and sat down 
beside me, putting his feet on the 
low fender, thereby bringing his 
knees well up to his chin. He had 
upon him the most pronounced 
air of the future president. Had 


77 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


I ever seen the well-driller’s little 
engine? No? Well, he was going 
to trade that and another one he 
had, for a big traction engine 
with two driving - rods. What 
was the use of two driving-rods? 
Why, then there couldn’t ever 
be any dead - center. Didn’t I 
know what a dead -center was? 
When the rod was at the dead- 
center, if it pushed ahead or pulled 
back it didn’t go. Couldn’t I see? 
He darted away and came back with 
a piece of his toy-engine, explain- 
ing eagerly while he showed it. It 
was like this and this ! Why, didn’t 
I know I had to start the fly-wheel 
on the sewing machine almost al- 
ways with my hand before the big 
wheel would turn ? That was when 
78 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the rod was at a dead-center. Of 
course the railroad engines had 
two rods. Did I think the engi- 
neer got out and pushed his wheel 
every time he wanted to start up ? 

December twentieth 

The day is wonderfully mild. 
Now and then a flake of snow falls 
idly, and there is a languor in the 
air, boding storm. I ride over to 
Mokena in the morning, with 
the milk, to meet the down train. 
We take the short cut through 
the woods. How still it is in 
the early winter’s morning, and 
what dim white vistas open up 
between the tree -trunks! Snow 
rests undisturbed in the crotches of 
the branches and the russet-brown 
leaves of the oaks are still clinging. 
79 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

Here is a partial clearing where the 
wood-cutters have been at work. 
Capital fresh chips, twigs and dead 
branches litter the snow, and an 
occasional stump turns the wheel 
to right or left. Cords of wood, 
evenly piled, are staked at intervals, 
and through the opening ahead 
is a glimpse of the creek. It was 
frozen except in the middle of the 
stream, where the swift current 
keeps the water free. On a knoll, 
across the creek, stands an empty, 
long -disused house, surrounded 
by murmuring trees, and haunted, 
perchance, by owls and the winds 
that wander from cellar to garret, 
for windows and doors have long 
forsaken their frames. Soon the 
village rises dimly in view, the 
80 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


roofs of the houses and the bury- 
ing -ground, snowcovered. 

December twenty-seventh 

This is zero weather, and a mark 
or two below. I must bring the 
clothes from the line before night 
sets in. How stiff and brittle they 
are, and how they glisten from the 
frost in them ! I am afraid the 
cellar will suffer to-night. The 
snow rings ominously when I walk 
in it. The low sun, dim and wintry, 
peers with a feeble light through 
the straggling thicket of the cherry 
grove. I am glad to scamper in 
with my basket. To-night we cover 
the potato-vines, and leave a bucket 
and a lamp in the cellar. Shades 
are drawn close behind the plants, 
and a white-robed, unearthly figure 
81 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


wanders through the room at 
unseasonable hours, adding fresh 
sticks to the fire. 

December twenty-eighth 

Let the wind take care of the 
snow; we will draw up to the fire, 
toast our feet, and munch this fresh 
pop-corn, while we chatter and are 
gay. Gossip ? What should we 
gossip about? Bless you ! We’ve 
scarce had a peep of our nearest 
neighbor these days, and only know 
by the thin smoke from the chim- 
neys that we have neighbors. 

This is the best winter for rab- 
bits I ever knew. They have worn 
a path through the hedge and the 
currant bushes, across the garden 
to the stacks. The boy has two 
traps set every night. Once or 
82 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


twice he has succeeded in trapping 
a bunny. Our neighbors often pass 
with dog and gun, and return 
well -laden with game. 

The other night two of the family 
were sitting up rather late. It was 
stinging cold and clear, bright 
moonlight. Just before going to 
bed, the oldest boy saw something 
moving in the garden. He called 
my attention, and together we 
went to the window and stealthily 
watched. Half a dozen bunnies 
were making free with the old 
garden, scurrying across the snow, 
or sitting up on their haunches 
in the moonlight. They made 
so comical an appearance that 
the two watchers laughed and 
laughed again. 


83 


A PRAIRIE W I N T E R 


December thirtieth 

The boys take turns sleeping at 
the new house, to keep up the fires. 
Two of us "went a piece” with 
them last night when they set out. 
It must have been half -past eight 
or later, and it was intensely cold. 
There was bright moonlight that 
made every shadow distinct and 
dimmed the brightest stars. Dia- 
mond-dust sparkled on the crusted 
snow, and our breaths froze as we 
talked. We had crossed the Cut- 
off track but a short distance when 
a long freight train, a double- 
header, puffed up the grade to the 
switch, and, unable to check its 
ponderous weight, ran past, almost 
to the crossing, instead of stopping 
and switching off the extra engine, 
84 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

as is the custom. We stopped in 
turn to watch, and such a time as 
that train had backing ! The brakes 
creaked and groaned, red lanterns 
flashed, and the big, black engines 
belched volumes of smoke. The 
air was so clear and pure that I 
watched one detached ring of 
smoke spin and spin endlessly, up 
and up, till it seemed to spin among 
the dim stars. When the furnace 
doors were opened, the play of light 
on the black smoke was most weird 
and lurid. The two engines, twin 
dragons, with an eye apiece and a 
common tail, snorted and puffed 
fire and smoke, and a long train of 
sparks rolled over us; and, alto- 
gether, there was something so 
diabolical in the scene that we 
85 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


waxed gleeful. So, with a great 
fuss and sputter, the train seemed 
to give it up and pulled out. But 
after making a run of about half 
a mile it whistled reverse brakes, 
and came lumbering back to the 
switch in triumph, taking what the 
boys call a running jump. 


86 


JANUARY 








January first 

T has begun to soften a 
little. I peeped out 
into the garden this 
morning, while I was 
dressing. Patches of sod and clods 
of dirt showed through the snow, 
which was gradually melting in 
open places. I hurried out to 
meet Nature in her melting mood. 
There was a humidity in the air 
that comes when a south wind 
blows. Slowly a mist was obscur- 
ing the landscape. Already the 
line of the woods was but a dim 
ribbon of blue, and even the clump 
89 




A PRAIRIE WINTER 


of locusts on the hill was blurring. 
The mist rose and spread, and soon 
the hedges had the odd appearance 
of fencing in the known world. 

January fifth 

January thaws, forsooth! To-day 
is a carnival of wind and snow, and, 
though we keep the fires roaring, 
the windows farthest from the 
stoves are coated with frost. Ferns 
and palm leaves, vines and wonder- 
ful sprays done in delicate tracery! 
One has a feeling of snugness and 
comfort to sit in a corner with a bit 
of plain sewing in hand, while the 
fire is red and the wind howls like 
a banshee. 

January sixth 

I have just enjoyed my first ride 
of this winter on a hand-sled. I was 


90 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


standing on the walk, undecided 
which path to take, when the 
youngest drew up his sled with a 
flourish. 

" Where are you going?” he 
asked invitingly, and the wind had 
whipped his cheeks to a fine red. 
"All right, I will,” I responded 
promptly, and in an instant the sled 
was doing duty. After he had had 
some time of this delightful exer- 
cise, I helped him load his sled 
with fire-wood, he, all the time, 
protesting that I needn’t do that, 
and gallantly offering his mittens 
for my bare hands. 

January seventh 

I am to have all the egg money 
this month, and, naturally, I am 
anxious that the eggs should be 


9i 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


brought in as early in the day as 
possible, as they freeze in the nests. 
Of course the chickens are kept 
housed this bitter weather. Late 
in the afternoon, when I was out 
with a dish of crumbs for my layers, 
I saw a hen on one of the nests and 
had my suspicions. House-work, 
however, drove her from my mind, 
and it was not until evening that 
I remembered that possible egg. 
Instantly I sallied forth, not waiting 
for the lantern that was urged upon 
me, and saying the egg would 
freeze if left another moment. I 
was prowling about, feeling for 
the nest, when some one who 
had followed with intent to save 
me from personal injury, struck 
a match, and there I saw that 
92 


A PRAIRIE JV I NTE R 


wretched hen, still on. I made a 
motion to put my hand under 
her and, to my inexpressible dis- 
gust, she ruffled her feathers and 
clucked feebly! No egg this 
trip ! But I felt well repaid, 
when, once outside, I took time 
to notice the heavens. There was 
no moon, and in the dead blue 
sky hosts upon hosts of glitter- 
ing stars filled the night with 
splendor that almost took my 
breath. Orion was well up and 
set the zenith flaming and scin- 
tillating, as down to the horizon 
passed the lesser stars, "a swarm 
of golden bees.” While I looked, 
a shooting star of unusual bril- 
liance cleared the frosty air with 
its golden trail. 


93 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


January eighth 

This morning the trees and 
bushes were dressed in heavy 
hoar-frost. It clung in flakes and 
crystals to the tiniest twigs, swung 
in festoons from bough to bough, 
and depended in feathery tufts 
from the lowest branches. All 
the world lay entranced, as if in 
a still, white dream. I hurried 
on my rubbers and wraps, for I 
knew that the great sight was un- 
der the old apple trees. Here, 
under these long rows, where the 
branches form a perfect arch over- 
head, — here is the wonderland! 
The arch is draped with plumy 
white, and from the powdery snow 
on the ground a million crystals 
flash. It is some mystic minster’s 


94 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


aisle of the long ago. Through 
the interlocking boughs peeps the 
fading moon, worn and frayed at 
the edges and keeping me ghostly 
company. It is all of a piece, — 
all of a piece ! 

At my left, through the tangle 
of currant and gooseberry bushes, 
I see the primrose of the eastern 
sky. One bright star, veiled in 
the mist of the horizon, still lin- 
gers. A necklace has been care- 
lessly dropped and coiled in the 
brambles of the blackberry- row. 

January eleventh 

There is a piping in at the key- 
hole, shrill and clear. It is the 
bugle -call from elf -land to the 
revel of the snowflakes, dancing, 
swirling, thickening the air and 

95 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

driving from all points of the com- 
pass at once in swifter and swifter 
medley. How keen the cold is ! 
— and surely iEolus has loosed 
the winds ! The hurrying snow is 
swept ahead, driven back and 
caught up in such bewildering 
chaos that whether from above or 
below the feathery crystals fly, one 
can scarcely say. Madder and 
more frantic grows the dance. 
Look out into the heart of the 
thick, white air as night darkens. 
Aerial riders plunge racing and 
leaping the abysses of the storm; 
half - hinted maiden forms, all 
wound with streaming hair, dis- 
appear in the eddying snow ; 
edges of trailing garments, caught 
and twisted, long writhing sprites 
96 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


that grasp at flowing robes are 
all swallowed up as the gust sweeps 
on. Then calmness, — out of the 
nebula of the storm gleams one 
falling flake like a five-pointed star. 
And the shrill elfin bugle calls. 

That was a storm — as near to 
a blizzard as a lover of a bluster 
could desire. All day long, as we 
fed the fires or fought our way 
to the outbuildings, we were filled 
with great uneasiness. The old- 
est boy was somewhere on the 
road, having presumably set out 
from Joliet early in the day. To 
be sure, there was little danger of 
his getting lost or confused ; still, 
the cold was very intense and his 
team none of the best. This we 
knew : he would stick to Prince and 

97 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


Dick till they all pulled through 
together. Night settled and we 
were putting away the supper 
things when the younger boys, 
who had been quietly reading, 
jumped up and with yells and 
peculiar whistles dashed to the 
door and window. 

" There he is — that’s his whis- 
tle!” We told them it was the 
wind they heard. 

"Ho! nobody and nothing else 
on earth can whistle like that !” 
They proved to be right, though 
it was some minutes before he 
emerged from the storm, having 
fought it for five long hours. 

January twelfth 

The house seemed strangely 
snug and warm ; even my own 
98 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


room had a cozy, shut-in feeling, 
and I went down-stairs, remarking 
that the wind must have forgotten 
its way in at the familiar cracks 
and crannies. No wonder! Thick 
and soft, from ridge-pole to eaves, 
lay the blanket of the wind’s weav- 
ing; while, from corner to cor- 
ner, heaps of freshly scooped snow 
hugged the clapboards snugly. 
Paths had been shoveled before 
sunrise. 

In the path that led to the gar- 
den gate I stood and waited for 
the sun. It was cold, — cheerily, 
sparkling cold, — and how all this 
vast white peacefulness contrasted 
with yesterday’s bluster! It is like 
looking at a fair, spotless world, 
new -created. Imagine now the 


L. cF C. 


99 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


dazzling whiteness suddenly suf- 
fused with orange splendor. It 
ripples across the distant fields, 
glances along the snow - capped 
fence -posts, and dyes a path of 
ruddy gold across the peaceful 
garden. 

January thirteenth 

The thermometer is sinking ! 
When I expressed a desire for a 
sun-dog this morning the boys 
said it was too cold for them to 
be out. It has begun to drift, 
and already we are afraid that the 
lane between us and the main 
road will be blockaded. 

I continue my regular trips to 
the hen-house. A fresh -laid egg 
breaks up the monotony of the day 
wonderfully. My woody heights 


ioo 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


and hollows are piled with snow. 
The distant ridges are lines of sil- 
very blue against the sky, un- 
broken, unless it might be by a 
bird’s flight. 

January fifteenth 

A walk to the ice-house and 
back does not take many minutes, 
but that is quite as long as. one wants 
to stay out in this air, — quite long 
enough, too, to catch one glimpse 
of the picture through the field-gap. 
Beyond the friendly wind-break 
of the groves it is drifting furiously. 
Down through the blowing, sifting 
snow the sun looks with a sullen, 
pitiless light. Whiffs of the fine 
snow -spray are blown along the 
drifts and caught up in the spirals 
that the wind tears to shreds, while 

IOI 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


over all plays the strange Arctic 
light. 

January sixteenth 

The lane is drifted full, and the 
teams go through the fields. We 
can no longer look through the 
windows, on account of the frost. 
It is thick like moss. I must 
walk only in the shoveled paths. 
Once I did get out to the stack 
for some fresh straw, but I had to 
admit that the snow was deeper 
than it looked. The trains on the 
two railroads have hard times 
getting through, and their whistles 
are hoarse with cold. The air is 
amazingly clear, and the sky flashes. 

January seventeenth 

We are having a series of such 
beautiful sunrises. If you could 


102 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

only stand at my elbow now, say a 
half-hour before sunrise, and look 
out across the meadows, where the 
snow is drifted in windrows ! The 
air is full of frozen moisture, that 
lodges on the trees and shrub- 
bery in starry points and crystals. 
My neighbor’s distant windmill is 
frozen against the frosty sky. Look 
well now, where the east is taking 
on tones as soft and impalpable 
as the colors in a dream, — misty 
violet, elusive pink and delicate 
seagreen. Can you see it all? 
Turn, then, to the west. See 
that sweep of poplars against 
the sky ! 

January eighteenth 

The first moderating of the 
severe cold came yesterday. It was 
103 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


but slight and heralded another 
snow-storm. By night-fall a wind 
set in, a wind that came blowing 
from the Gulf of Mexico, and be- 
fore whose tireless sweep the stars 
trembled and grew faint. 

January nineteenth 

I am to have luck, I am to have 
luck ! I have seen the slender new 
moon a -rocking low in the sky. 
Not face to face, to be sure; over 
my right shoulder, as I stood at 
the door, I saw it sinking, with its 
shadowy rim, into the rose -flush 
of the west. 

January twentieth 

There was so much ozone in the 
air it seemed a pity not to enjoy 
it more. I announced my inten- 
tion of going to see the ice-cutters 


104 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


at work, and thereupon was given 
no chance to change my mind. 
Bundled into the sled with my 
back to the wind I was wrapped 
in the blanket, and away we went. 

I was wild with delight at the 
dashing snow, the exhilaration of 
the air and the excitement. Grasp- 
ing the edge of the sled, I leaned 
to watch the snow slip past the 
runners. Across the track we 
turned into the fields. It was 
drifting so that the track of the 
up ice-teams was obliterated before 
the empty sleds went back. 

Was I cold? Did I mind the 
wind? and did I want to go back? 
the rollicking boys would like to 
know. Not I! This was fun. 
We stopped at the corner, for the 
105 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


boys had the noon chores to do, 
and I begged to be taken to the 
barn, where I renewed acquaint- 
ance with the horses and cows, 
tested the new pump, and finally 
sat down in the hay to rest and 
keep warm. 

Then we loaded up again and 
started down to the creek for a 
load of ice. What drifts were 
these, with their odd, shelving 
caps ! We turned into our neigh- 
bor’s barnyard and so struck off 
into the woods by as rough a 
trail as I hope ever to meet again, 
bumping into dead branches, drop- 
ping into hollows and up on the 
opposite side with a violent jerk. 
Finally, we swung around in sight 
of the creek, and the cutters came 
106 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


to a halt on the ice itself. A 
large space of it had been swept 
clean of the light snow and was 
blocked off into squares, like a 
checker- board. I longed to run 
the ice -plow that seemed to work 
so smoothly, or the keen little saw 
that freed the ice from either bank; 
but, since neither was allowed me, 
I walked about on the ice and pre- 
tended to shovel snow. A number 
of ice-cakes lay on the bank, ready 
for loading. Now they seemed 
colorless as water, and again as 
green as emerald or as purple as 
amethyst. I rode on one of them 
going home and studied the others, 
wondering at their clarity and 
transparence. A stray sunbeam, 
striking the jagged edge of one, 
107 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


caused the pulsing color of the 
aurora. In one, I fancied a smil- 
ing eddy had been caught and 
prisoned fast. 

January twenty-third 

They called me to the window 
to look, and after the first glance 
I could not stay inside, but has- 
tened to be in the yard, to walk 
to the gate and look on all sides, 
scarcely daring to breathe lest the 
spell should pass. 

It was early morning, and the 
sun had not yet looked up. The 
feeling of silence which belongs 
to that early hour was enhanced 
by a veil of frosty particles that 
shut out all magical sights and 
folded me in with only the more 
familiar objects. Yet, were they 
108 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


familiar ? Was the lilac bush 
merely a bush or some enchanted 
princess whom a breath might 
cause to vanish ? I questioned 
the east, where a faint, dreamy 
pink, showing through the frost- 
veil, seemed almost to suggest 
Beauty’s self, blushing behind the 
silvery folds. 

Later in the day, as I walk where 
I can, I notice the sled, and the 
sedate team standing without a 
driver. I climb up on the hay, 
hoping for a ride when the driver 
shall return, — perhaps around to 
the ice-house and back, perhaps 
just to the shed. But who knows 1 
for here comes the driver, with a 
jump, to grab the lines. 

w Where are you going?” he 
109 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


asks, springing in and taking the 
lines. 

"I am taking a ride,” I answer 
serenely, as the team starts. "Why 
do I go here ? ” I demand, not liking 
the masterly way we take to the road. 
"I am not dressed for visiting.” 

"Afraid you won’t be warm 
enough?” asks this creature in 
blouse and overalls, reaching for 
the hay and tucking me in. 

"I’m not in the habit of making 
morning calls with a shawl over 
my head,” I answer, with what 
dignity the shawl leaves me. He 
surveys me critically a moment 
and drives on, chuckling. After 
all, he is only a boy, for all his 
tremendously long arms and the 
razor which he — owns. 


no 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


I am in for a frolic, since the 
snow is too deep for wading, so 
I settle down with my back to 
the driver, not at all to express 
my disapproval of his cavalier ways, 
but to get a better view of the 
woods. They are seen to better 
advantage out here on the prairie 
and are indescribable in their white 
unreality. Indeed it has been only 
an hour at the best since the frost 
parted reluctantly to reveal them, 
with here a tree starting out from 
its fellows, and there a group 
dimly indicated, almost, one might 
imagine, as if the delicate, swing- 
ing veil, — all silvery incrustations, 
— were rent here or wafted aside 
there, revealing quite accidentally 
the hidden mysteries and glories. 


hi 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


Presently we turn in at a 
gate and up an avenue lined with 
cherry trees, stopping at the side 
door of a large white house. 
Here the driver leaves me, and 
goes in to inquire about butter. 
I beguile my time studying the 
fanciful shapes of the evergreens 
standing about the yard and watch- 
ing the antics of an exceedingly 
inquisitive dog. I am wondering 
if a handful of hay would appease 
his curiosity, when he bounds into 
the sled and continues overtures 
from this vantage. Evidently he 
knows I am his nearest neighbor, 
and perhaps remembers the morn- 
ing, not so long ago, when he 
chased a rabbit almost past the 
door, never stopping to bid me 


1 12 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


good -day. With his paws in my 
lap he now makes all due apol- 
ogies. 

Two rosy-cheeked children press 
their faces against the window. 
We exchange nods and smiles. 
The housewife pushes open the 
door and bids me in, but I laugh- 
ingly explain ; and here, at last, 
comes my driver with his jar of 
butter. So, good-bye to the merry 
German and the friendly dog, who 
has no notion of leaving his yard 
to follow us. 


“3 


* 


FEBRUARY 


\ 


February first 

T has begun to rain, — 
a sharp, stinging rain, 
like finely-ground glass. 
It beats against the 
window, freezing as it clings, and 
in a few minutes the panes look as 
if sand-blasted in curious figures. 



February third 

After inclining to a thaw and 
melting rains for a day or so, it 
suddenly changed and set the wind 
in the west, and this morning trees 
bent, weeping crystal tears. The 
cold neutrality of the east broke 
into light, — not wide and clear 
117 



A PRAIRIE WINTER 


along the horizon, but slowly 
opening in one place, as if a flower 
should unfold to you its creamy 
rose clear to its golden heart while 
you gazed. 

February fourth 

I stood at my window, looking 
out. All gentle folk were abed 
and asleep, and nothing stirred 
except the wind. A wild, gray 
night it was, that would not be 
light, though there was a moon 
somewhere, manifesting itself by a 
wan glimmer on the patchy snow. 
The branches of the ash snapped ; 
distorted, wailing strings of some 
vast harpsichord were tossed and 
troubled against the sky. One in- 
stant a handful of rain struck 
the window smartly; the next a 
1 1 8 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


woven network of branches and 
moonlight was cast at the foot of 
the ash. 

February fifth 

Perhaps you sat up too late and 
hugged the stove when the last 
stick was charred and an ash or 
two fell dismally from the grate. 
The wind shook the door, — and 
you wished you could finish that 
book. You looked over your 
shoulder as you went upstairs with 
the light, and perhaps the stairs 
didn’t creak! And if it wasn’t 
the stairs or the wind, what 
was it? 

February sixth 

The meadows were a glare of 
ice. The risen moon made a 
broadening walk for her elfin folk 
119 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


on the smooth surface, — crust of 
moonshine and dust of starlight 
and the steely glitter of ice. The 
windows of my room were set 
with jeweled mosaics, on which 
the stirring shadow of the ash was 
thrown. 

February twelfth 

The foot of my bed is towards 
the huge brick chimney, built into 
the room. Some one was kindling 
the parlor fire. I heard the first 
crackle and roar, and, opening my 
eyes, could see the train of sparks 
shadowed on the thin covering of 
the chimney- hole. Presently I 
rose to shut my window. What 
a curious world it is when you 
turn out of bed at no -time -at -all 
in the morning, — and what is that 


120 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


light in the east? Why, only the 
old moon just dipping above the 
horizon. But what a mere rind 
of moon it is, so red and with 
horns so sharp ! 

Mid-February 

I have seen it and heard it ! 
Through the cherry- thicket it 
flashed, silvery blue, and I heard 
the tremulous notes of an uncer- 
tain trill ; for the bluebird has 
come back ! 

"Tell you what! I’d like a day 
like this, — twenty or thirty of those 
soundest maples tapped, and the 
buckets filling before noon. My- 
O-Jakey! but wouldn’t the sap 
run to - day ? ” 

The words bring such a pleas- 
ant thrill. Don’t you know it? — 
121 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the feel of a good sap -day in 
mid - February. The sun, — what 
a spring-like warmth there is in 
his beams, especially on the sunny 
side of buildings and stacks where 
the cattle are enjoying their free- 
dom from long confinement in the 
stables. Around the stable doors 
the chickens scratch eagerly, led by 
two veteran roosters, whose lusty 
crowing is music to the ears. By 
noon there is an appreciable wast- 
ing of the irregular, blackened 
ridges, — half snow, half ice, — still 
lingering in the shadows of the 
fences, by cellar -doors and in 
sheltered corners. Clods of dirt 
in the fields are black and shiny 
as the frost leaves them. You 
hear, — though it is only in mem- 


122 


A PRAIRIE tTINTER 


ory you know, — a faint tinkle 
and musical drip, dripping, as 
the sunlight, falling through bare 
tree -tops, skims the surface of a 
brimming bucket, propped with 
a piece of dead limb to keep it 
level. 

The sunset lingered. Coming 
and going about my work, now at 
the door and now at the well, I 
saw its rose fire, even after the first 
stars appeared and the moon in 
the east was as high as the poplars, 
bending to the ridge-pole. A 
mildness peculiar to February, — a 
mildness hinting melting snow and 
still chill with the cold ground, 
— pervaded the air. 

I lingered outside a few minutes. 
A sleepy twitter came from the 


123 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


hedges, where the sparrows were 
going to bed. The wind grew 
chillier and I went in to the fire 
and the lamplight. 


124 


MARCH 



March first 

HE youngest was up on 
the wood-shed. To any- 
one familiar with the 
youngest’s ways the 
statement could scarcely cause the 
mildest surprise. He is, like the 
Pharisees, fond of high places. He 
is proud owner, inventor and sole 
manufacturer of a wind-mill, rigged 
to the high end of the shed’s slop- 
ing roof. To my untutored mind it 
seems the mill’s fatality never to go 
when the breeze is moderate and 
to topple ignominiously the min- 
ute the wind gets strong. But the 
127 




A PRAIRIE IV I N T E R 


highly optimistic owner is nothing 
daunted. A gust of wind peculiar 
to the incoming month, a warning 
creak, and a moment later a boy 
with purposeful legs wriggles on to 
the roof and the wind-mill is righted 
once more. As I said, he was on 
the roof, but in a trice he was off, 
shot off to the imminent danger of 
his neck, and gathered himself up 
from the ground. I am used, 
however, to his meteoric manner 
of descent. His eyes were dancing 
as he dashed into the house in a 
way to put to shame the March 
zephyrs. 

"Oh, I heard a robin! — I did! 
yes, sir!” 

Now the first note of the robin is 
an event in the family with each 
128 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


returning spring, so I dropped 
broom and dust-pan and hurried 
out. We stood side by side, and 
the boy was quiet: gloom began to 
gather on his face. He fancied he 
read doubt in mine. 

"It was a robin !” he asserted 
sturdily; "and, oh, he was just 
going it ! ” 

But I am always willing to be- 
lieve in the robin’s first call. 

March third 

I could not tell where the sound 
came from, and we had driven 
nearly half a mile before I recog- 
nized it. Then I begged the boy 
to stop and let me listen. He did, 
and the sober white mare pro- 
tested with a backward prick of 
her ears as who should say, "Are 


129 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


we to stand stock-still just for her 
nonsense?” But the boy gallantly 
said I needn’t mind her. 

Bubbling from the tile - drains, 
trickling from under the blackened 
snow, half the time hidden from 
sight, but ever musically present 
to the ear, a hundred tiny springs 
were feeding the culverts. It is 
the grand breaking up of the long 
reign of snow and ice. 

March fourth 

It was such a bonny day! The 
sun, in its higher arc, tempered 
the moist, persistent south wind. 
Bluebirds winged past, tremulous 
flashes of blue, or from some un- 
steady poplar branch trilled lav- 
ishly, ending with exquisite gurgles 
that made you want to laugh. 


130 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


We made a holiday of it, our 
moving day. There was laughing 
and calling, organized disorder and 
many futile attempts to pack every- 
thing positively necessary for the 
first night in one box. I dived 
into the depths of a huge packing- 
box, holding a central position in 
the room, deposited odd pieces of 
china in the corners, with a vague 
wonder as to when I should see their 
familiar cracks again, and realized 
in despair that the " positively nec- 
essary” was slowly including every- 
thing in the house, from the alarm- 
clock to the rolling-pin. But the 
trials were only begun. Who knew 
how unaccommodating a coffee-pot 
could be when tucked into a basket 
of limited dimensions? And as to 

I 3 I 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the tea-pot, its angles were legion 
when you tried to adjust them to a 
frying-pan and a tin dinner-pail. 
When you think all is ready, lo ! no 
one has thought of the boot-jack. 
The boys make a raid on an opened 
can of fruit and treat it as spoils of 
the occasion. You attempt remon- 
strance, and they ” tender you the 
service of their lips” to the extent, 
that, upon circumstantial evidence, 
you would be judged guilty of too 
close acquaintance with the pre- 
serves. When at last we ride away 
I wave adieu to the old weather- 
stained house, thereby much en- 
dangering the parlor lamp. 

But our new old house is in sight 
just over the hill. In two hours we 
are settled, smoke pouring from the 


132 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


chimney, the beds made up and 
the tea-table set. The boys flock 
in from the milking to exclaim 
and admire. Tired, hungry and 
happy we gather around the table 
and have the blessing. 

March fifth 

A mist at early morning, when 
the sun can merely color, never 
pierce its denseness, when hollows 
in the wood are white lakes from 
which the submerged trees just 
lift their tops, and when cobwebby 
trails of mist wipe out clusters of 
trees or suddenly reveal some clear- 
ing, — that is a sight worth rising to 
see, worth hours of sluggard sleep. 

March eighth 

At work near a window as even- 
ing came, I heard the robin’s 
133 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

song, — cheerful, unmistakable at 
last. Uncertain calls now and 
again had tantalized, but this 
melody was ripe and full. We 
called to each other that there 
was the robin for sure, and then 
we listened ! How he caroled ! 
how he enjoyed himself ! It mat- 
tered little to him that the trees 
were dripping, that the frost re- 
ceded so slowly from the hard 
ground, — that, in short, it was only 
March. And when he finished 
spring seemed to be within our 
grasp. 

March twelfth 

We drove to the village east of 
us in an open wagon. It was 
somewhat past sunset when we 
started, and the robin had sung 
134 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


his last note and flown. The pas- 
tures, bare and brown, and the 
plowed lands drying clayey yel- 
low on the little hillslopes, were 
very welcome to the sight after 
all the weary months of snow. 
Long strips of water at the road- 
side held wind -rippled reflections 
of the leaning fences, and of 
the osage hedges waving sprays. 
The pond, with the matted brown 
grass floating out at the edges, un- 
dulated softly in the breeze and 
reflected the shadowy lights of 
evening. Far to the west, farm- 
houses, groves and orchards disap- 
peared in the rosy purple twilight. 
The stars came out by twos and 
threes, to find their shifting doubles 
in the roadside water. 


135 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


Mid-March 

It is morning. Perhaps men are 
scarcely astir, but the birds have 
been singing since the first prim- 
rose streak. I can scarcely distin- 
guish the varying notes as I stand 
looking out across the fields, but I 
think there is a meadowlark to 
every fence -post. 

The shadow of the tall cotton- 
wood falls far to the west, for the 
sun is but a few degrees high. 
Or is it noon? I move the sashes 
apart on the hotbed, to give freer 
circulation of air to the tender 
green plants. Mentally I measure 
each day’s growth, and am almost 
certain we shall have young onions 
for the table in a week or two. I 
have begun to live out of doors, 

136 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


with spade and rake and hoe for 
company. The sun is delightfully 
warm and a haze hangs over the 
woods. 

Afternoon. — The clouds, coming 
quickly from nowhere in partic- 
ular, have overcast the sky. They 
hang low and the trees stir gently. 
The shrill, monotonous chorus of 
the frogs grows painfully distinct. 
Seemingly from far off comes 
the low, complaining call of the 
pewee. 

Evening. — On a branch of the 
black walnut tree, in the yard, sits 
a robin, — fatter, saucier, ruddier 
of breast than any other of his 
tribe. He sings with such a spirit 
one might think the whole melody 
of creation was left to his execu- 


137 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


tion. Hopping to a higher branch 
he begins all over again, ending 
with a few coaxing notes utterly 
irresistible. A few drops of the 
shower gone by make a silver 
sheen in the air. Robin flirts his 
tail and sings on; his w Whittle it, 
whittle it/” braves anything. Out 
of the twilight comes a faint an- 
swering call. We close the door; 
the day is over. 

Night. — I waken to the whis- 
pering of the thick-clustering trees 
in the dark yard. Murmur on 
murmur, sighing of rain or of 
teeming buds, whispering to the 
starting grass or hushing the winds 
to rest. I turn and think: It is 
still night. 


138 


APRIL 


















































April second 

ASTER. — My thoughts 
went far afield to the 
prairie-chickens, whose 
distant booming at day- 
break proclaimed the spring had 
opened ; to the meadowlark, los- 
ing himself in pure abandonment 
of praise. I thought of the burst- 
ing lilac buds ; of the tulips and 
hyacinths, forcing their pale green 
tips through the mulching; and of 
the oats, only yesterday sowed in 
the warm ground to be quickened 
of sun and rain. And the Eastertide 
was full of joy. 




A PRAIRIE WINTER 


April fourth 

The youngest brought home 
from school a bunch of wild flowers 
in his dinner pail ! 

"Tell you, I just had to hunt for 
’em most of the noon,” he said, 
standing by admiringly as I lifted 
them out. I hurried to bring a 
glass and arrange them ; then I put 
my face down for a whiff of the 
wood-scents lingering about them, 
of leaf-mold and decaying logs, of 
mosses and ferns just peeping. 
Hepaticas, white, pink and blue, 
with delicate buds half - smothered 
in green leaves of the dicentra; and 
who came by stopped for a look. 

April fifth 

Of a sudden you notice that the 
trees are tasseled out, though yes- 


142 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


terday you were aware of no 
change. The meadows and road- 
sides, — where did they find those 
hints of green in a few hours? 
Teams are at work in the fields all 
about. The oats are being seeded. 

A field of corn-stubble, just har- 
rowed, lies glinting in the afternoon 
sun. The air above the fields is 
a -shimmer with heat waves. A 
shower blows up at evening, and in 
at doors and windows comes a 
whiff of the freshening pastures. 

April sixteenth 

All things come to her who waits, 
— even the spring bonnet. I went to 
church this morning with the two 
older boys, the irrepressibles. They 
have been threatening a violent 
destruction for the brown felt hat, 


i43 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


and I must say I should hate to 
outlive my usefulness as far as that 
piece of millinery has, and it made 
no great pretensions at the start. 
But what is one to do ? When one 
has brushed it and pinched it into 
shape for the twentieth time, has 
done one’s hair high and done it 
low in the vain hope of relieving 
the general unbecomingness, one 
may be excused for turning one’s 
back on old friends and consigning 
the winter hat to the ash-heap. If 
the spring hat were forthcoming, 
or were even anything more than 
the baseless fabric of this vision, 
the boys might flatten its prede- 
cessor and welcome. 

But, well -a- day! listen to the 
tuneful company of birds ; look at 


144 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


the pastures taking on a tender 
green, — at the sloughs fluted with 
the morning wind, and the trees all 
cloudy with tassels, — and, pray, 
isn’t it enough to prepare one for 
church, with or without suitable 
headgear ? 

People ask if we are beginning 
to feel at home in the new house 
and if we are getting settled. To 
the last I answer, "Progressing,” 
reserving my opinion of nail -kegs 
in the capacity of wash-stands. 
Another grievance is the looking- 
glass. I hope it isn’t vanity that 
makes me consider a mirror an 
essential article of furniture, and 
more desirable hung upon the 
wall than lying prone on the closet 
floor. A migratory mirror without 
H5 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


an abiding nail, and requiring to 
be propped at the requisite angle 
against a trunk or cot, is an aggra- 
vation to the spirit and very trying 
to the back hair. And it doesn’t 
soothe my spirits one particle, 
though it throws some light on the 
back hair, to be told I wouldn’t 
be any happier if I could get the 
full effect ! 

Truly we are making haste 
slowly, and when we once get into 
the blissful state known as "settled,” 
nothing shall tear us up again. 

April twenty-eighth 

Gardening is a fine art, and if 
one didn’t have to devote so much 
time to the actual spading, hoeing 
and raking, one might write a 
pamphlet on "How to Do It.” 

146 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


Starting a new garden is a pleas- 
ing experience. We chose the 
plot east of the house, cornering 
on the lane and the "big road,” 
and running half way up to the 
cherry grove. It encloses an old 
landmark in the shape of a large 
apple tree standing in the center 
of the plot and dividing the corn 
and potato land from the garden. 
Jamie and I are proprietors. Jamie 
fenced it in as early in the season 
as possible, — wire -fencing, said to 
be chicken-proof, — and, of course, 
the hotbed furnished the small 
plants for resetting. 

Now, difficulties will beset every 
path, but I think fate was especially 
perverse with me in omitting my 
bump of direction. I start out 
147 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


gaily with my row of onion sets ; 
or, it may be, cabbages. This time 
it shall be straight, or we’ll know 
the reason why. There ! I stand 
up to straighten the kink in my 
back and survey my work with 
pride, not without a rising qualm 
as I notice how far the line of 
garden -fence has sagged from my 
neat rows. Alas! along comes the 
boy with his hands in his pockets, 
— says quizzically: 

"Who marked your rows for 
you?” — and all my pride crumbles 
away. 


148 


MAY 



May first 

E have put two leaves in 
the dining-room table, 
for Mary and the babies 
have come home, — the 
first and only one of the family to 
w swarm,” so far. Mary hadn’t been 
home since the barn burned, and 
as Cora was home, too, for her 
spring vacation, there was so much 
to see and to say that it’s a per- 
fect mercy there was any supper 
at all ; for, first one and then the 
other of us made a mildly inoffen- 
sive effort at preparing it, then left 
off to join the rest in the parlor 

151 




A PRAIRIE WINTER 


or one of the bedrooms. Nobody 
seemed able to sit down and every 
one wanted to talk at once ; which 
in no way hindered the progress of 
the conversation, till the boys went 
off to milk and the visiting papa 
with them. 

May fourth 

Woman is but mortal, and her 
perfections are precarious. Now, I 
prided myself I could pack dishes, 
china and pictures so they wouldn’t 
crumble in transit; and there was 
a huge box, packed full of pic- 
tures and so forth, which was to 
bear testimony to my skill. It 
only awaited our convenience to be 
brought down to the new house; 
and to-day the boys went after it. 
Cora and I unpacked. We lifted 
152 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


out the pictures carefully. All 
right, so far ! Then there was an 
ominous rattling of glass, and we 
fished out the etchings, the two 
precious etchings, each with its 
glass utterly demolished. I put 
them on the floor and gasped, 
and then rushed off upstairs to 
my bedroom and cast myself on 
the floor. All I could say was, 
"It's too bad! Oh, it’s too bad!” 
and then dive into the friendly 
quilt. 

I began to think I never should 
be able to go down and look at 
those mutilated pictures again, 
when the girls came up to fish 
me out and laugh at my forlornity. 
I was an object to behold, and sat 
on the bed to restore myself, 
iS3 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


while the girls offered consoling 
remarks, with feeling allusions to 
my swollen eyes and lips, until I 
smiled woebegonely. 

May eighth 

I am having an attack of house- 
keeping, not very acute, and I am 
expected to convalesce shortly; but 
while it lasts the symptoms are 
interesting, and the family looks 
on and applauds. I theorize and 
scrape the oatmeal kettles. Oat- 
meal kettles there will always be 
to scrape — other things come one’s 
way but once. Better it is, I say, 
wisely, to be a sister who is a 
home -keeper than one who is 
but a housekeeper, — better not so 
much affinity between dust -cloths 
and the lurking dust — than to ali- 
154 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


enate one’s embryo statesman from 
the parlor. 

The urchin who trudges down 
to the woods every morning with 
the cows brought me a huge 
bunch of violets, yellow and gor- 
geous. I put them on the window- 
sill in a big tin-cup. The oatmeal 
kettle disposed of, the kitchen 
tidied, and everything in readiness 
for getting dinner, I took my pan 
of lettuce and sat down near the 
window while I rinsed the cool, 
green leaves. 

May twelfth 

One may travel much and not 
hear nor see so much worth hear- 
ing or seeing as at steady gar- 
dening. The birds are the best 
of company. I’ve discovered a 
155 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

bird, — or its song. It is the brief- 
est song, — so sweet and shy, and 
with a suggestion of unrequited 
affection that’s simply delicious ! 
It comes from the hedge across 
the road just about sunset, and is 
so infrequent that I haunt the 
roadside to catch its shyest note. 
Then, there’s another bird, he’s an 
optimist, — in favor with his nest- 
ing mate, and makes open procla- 
mation of his joy to all the world. 

That’s the wise thrush. He sings each 
song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could 
recapture 

That first, fine, careless rapture. 


I make long stops to listen, — 
really it seems a sin to toil in the 
presence of such prodigal joy, 
156 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


though what the beans and onions 
think as to that I’m sure I can’t 
say. Little he cares who listens 
so long as she hears. 

"True as you live, true as you live,” 
warbles he, 

W I do, I do! Sweetheart! Sweetheart! 

Sure of it ! 

Sure of it! We two! We two!” 

May thirteenth 

I suppose it would be possible 
to look more beaming than the 
urchin with several good-sized fish 
in his dinner-pail, but it would be 
hard. He popped the cover off to 
give us a peep at the wonderful 
catch before he was fairly inside 
the door. Three or four suckers 
and a fair- sized bull -pout, — quite 
a showing for Hickory Creek, a 
stream of no great piscatorial pre- 
i57 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


tensions, but barely a mouthful 
for a family counting four boys. 

"Well, I guess I — say, I don’t 
care much for any,” said the fish- 
erman, sturdily. "You eat mine,” 
and he slipped the largest sucker 
through his fingers caressingly. 

May sixteenth 

Warm rains, and how the blos- 
soms have come out ! The air is 
drunk with perfume. I walked up 
to the old place toward evening 
and mooned over the cherry blos- 
soms. I walked inside the pasture 
fence and hunted for sheep-sorrel 
and nibbled at the dainty blossoms 
with the relish of school days. 

I like to walk in deep grass, if 
it doesn’t look prone to snakes, — 
it seems to wipe the dust of com- 
158 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

monness off the feet. The strips 
of green velvet at the roadside are 
bordered with yellow dandelions. 

As I turned in at the big gate, 
the silence and desolation was 
broken by a belligerent "Gobble, 
gobble, gobble!” that gave me 
quite a turn. 

I stood and stared, and that 
proud bird strutted about the yard 
and scraped up the chips with his 
wings. What under the sun ! It 
must be our own gobbler, come 
home to roost. Yes, that’s the 
clipped wing ! I walked on, de- 
termined to investigate, when a 
shrill "Quit, quit!” brought me 
again to a halt. On her accus- 
tomed roost, on the top board of 
the fence, sat the old hen-turkey 


*59 


A PRAIRIE tFINTER 


just settling for the night. Evi- 
dently here were two protestants 
against innovations that included 
wire -fencing for roosts. 

"Whatever shall we do?” I asked 
myself, and my eyes filled fast as 
I looked at the familiar yards and 
fences and those two faithful 
turkeys. 

"Corral them and drive ’em 
home,” myself answered promptly. 
So, after enjoying the blossoms to 
my heart’s content, I shoo’d the 
turkeys from their roosts — for the 
gobbler had perched on the tool- 
shed — and piloted them toward 
home. 

"Truly,” I thought, as I dodged 
after those insane birds, "it’s a hard 
thing that the turkeys must take a 
160 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


sentimental turn, simultaneously 
with me !” 

Another resemblance I noticed 
was a strong repugnance to being 
driven. 

May seventeenth 

We were sitting in the dining- 
room, mother serenely sewing and 
I as serenely looking on, when the 
youngest popped his head in at 
the door to announce in a tone of 
suppressed excitement: 

" Belle, the bobolink!” 

Having promised to produce a 
bobolink, he has kept me on the 
qui vive with false alarms for days. 
Nevertheless, I snatched a shawl, 
for it was raining, and he hurried 
me into the yard and down to the 
gate. There, under the trees, 
161 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 

I listened eagerly. Imagine your- 
self too late for the concert — just 
in time to catch the last tantalizing 
notes. Next day I was more for- 
tunate. You could not mistake 
those gurgling notes. Right across 
the road is the meadow that slopes 
down to the slough, and here the 
bobolinks hold revel. All around 
are the woods, just close enough 
for you to distinguish the delicate 
pink of wild crab-apple in blossom. 
The low sun dazzles from the west 
and casts a glamor over meadows, 
woods and groups of cattle, grazing 
near the gate or in the distant 
pastures. 

Up from the slough grasses 
circles a bobolink, white, black and 
yellow, and another, and another ! 

162 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


Ecstatic melody, the Song incar* 
nate ! You hold your breath and 
wonder that thing so small can voice 
theme so wonderful and varied. 

June third 

For music, real, genuine music, 
the sort that pipes to the spirit in 
hours of childhood, commend me 
to the boy with the dandelion stem. 
Up the lane he comes, hat well on 
the back of his head, and all of his 
energies bent on "making her tune 
up.” The blood tingles in your 
veins. Reclining against the fence, 
he pipes away, and when you leave 
of? weeding he looks at you with 
cheerful comradeship. Up the 
road and down the road, the fluffy, 
white dandelion tops begin to 
weave in and out among their 
163 


A PRAIRIE WINTER 


starry companions. Their tall stems 
make " beauties of whistles.” 

Monday — and wash - day — and 
the meadowlarks are singing. 
Shouldn’t I like to see you! 

I’ve had to make such lapses 
between writings, but it’s all been 
to you! If I don’t write it as I 
ought, it’s because I need to see 
you.! Your letter has made a part 
of my June. 


164 


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MAR 31 1903 
























































